


tilted

by foxwedding



Series: Big Love [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Drinking, F/F, Female Billy Hargrove, Female Billy Hargrove/Female Steve Harrington, Female Steve Harrington, Slurs, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23416804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxwedding/pseuds/foxwedding
Summary: Stevie's just out here trying to get some top. Instead, she's being forced to come to terms with the fact that her best friend's new girlfriend's best friend is Billie fucking Hargrove.  Modern AU, still with the Upside Down
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley/Heather Holloway
Series: Big Love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684426
Comments: 18
Kudos: 106





	tilted

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Christine and the Queens's _Tilted_.
> 
> I've got this HC that the crux of Billy's attraction to Steve is this: Initially, Steve is Billy's social equal, but his character development is such that he 'throws it all away for love.' And I think that Billy, who has so little love in his own life, would find that move to be attractive and ballsy. Even in the show, Billy doesn't really seem to hate Steve until he realizes there's something else at play and that he's being lied to. 
> 
> Basically, I took this HC and made it lesbian.

Rose's is basically some old butch's response to the Cheers bar—a question that's never once been posed, and probably never should have been answered, if you ask Stevie. But the pickings are slim in Indianapolis, and it's right around the corner from the two-bedroom apartment she shares with Robin. It's a Friday evening, they've just finished a quick dinner at the pupuseria next door and are now settling into their usual high tabletop by the window. Their Friday and Saturday nights are typically spent at Rose's, unless one of them decides to rally and taxi down to the good gay bar in the seedier part of the city.

Here, there are two massive flat screens above the bar, one playing a WBL game and the other the new L-Word reboot on mute. This is in stark contrast to the ambient music, which never plays a hit past 1995, mostly because the older dykes that perpetually huddle around the pool table in the back get to pick the music. Stevie figures they must be friends with the owner.

Stevie's on a first name basis with a handful of them, but only because they absolutely adore Robin, who is the poster image for 'baby gay,' in her cut-off denim vests with the screen-printed patches, the layered chokers, and the chunky Doc Martins. Next to Robin, Stevie's well aware she's the aloof high-femme best-friend, out of place in her short leather skirt, high-heeled boots, and two-hundred-dollar silk and lace All Saints camisole. They probably assume Stevie's going through a gay phase (or worse, bisexual). They mean well, but they're old school lesbians through-and-through.

This early in the evening, the bar is pretty sparsely populated. Stevie takes a long swallow of her saison, crosses her bare legs, and tucks in for the long haul with a satisfied sigh. Despite all the aspects of Rose's that offend her rich-girl sensibilities, it's still her neighborhood gay bar and she's become fiercely fond of it. Across from her, Robin's doing the same while eyeing her strangely.

Before Stevie can launch into yet another diatribe about the insufferable hipsters that frequent the coffeeshop where she works, Robin's cut her off with a, "Okay, don't freak out—"

Immediately, Stevie's looking around the bar with wide-eyed alarm, a leftover instinct from growing up in Hawkins, one she's never been able to shake. Then Robin's petting her hand softly, murmuring, "No, no, nothing like that, everything's fine." Stevie shoots her best friend a self-deprecating smile before knocking back a good third of her beer.

"Dude, what's going on," she asks, wiping some foam from her upper lip, half her attention focused on the condensation ring left on the table top.

"You remember how I've been talking to Heather from back in Hawkins?" Robin's eyebrows are raised meaningfully, for some reason tacitly pleading for Stevie to take the conversation seriously. Stevie does not.

"Literally, Rob, how would I be able to forget that? You've spent every waking minute texting her—" Robin opens her mouth like she wants to protest, but Stevie barrels forwards. "I'm telling you, you're fucking U-hauling this before you've even fucked, and that's a bad move". She punctuates this with a shake of her head and a short sip from her pint glass. Robin's rolling her gaze towards the ceiling, one-handedly cracking the knuckles of her left hand like she always does when the brunette tries her patience. Probably because this is an argument they've been having for the past two weeks. 

"I'm just saying," Stevie continues, and Robin lets her chin drop to her chest with a groan. _"I'm just saying,_ the fuck are you gonna do if you get down to it, and she's a fucking pillow princess, huh?" The lack of top action in their lives is a constant source of commiseration. Sometimes, Stevie thinks it might even be the bonding foundation of their friendship. But then she remembers the Russians and thinks, probably nah. 

The blonde shrugs. "Look, then we'll work on it, I guess. God, could you just let me be excited about this?"

Robin sounds exhausted with the conversation already, and fuck if that doesn't flood Stevie with hot guilt. "Sorry, I'm sorry," she apologizes, half trying to obscure the words behind the lip of her glass.

"You're just too cautious with relationships, Steph—" and oh fuck, Robin's pulling out her real name, which means she's aiming for the kind of utter sincerity that makes Stevie's insides shrivel and cringe.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Stevie tries to cut Robin off at the pass. 

Fails when Robin continues, "You're never just going to stumble on a 'sure thing'. You have to take some risks if you want something worth having." And Stevie knows they're both deliberately not mentioning Nancy Wheeler, the girl Stevie outed herself for in highschool. Tossed away her popularity and her childhood friends, only to have it all thrown back in her face when Nancy decided that Stevie _had_ been a phase afterall, tearfully dumping her during the end-of-the-world for then-loser Jonathan fucking Byers. Over time, 'Jonathan fucking Byers' had become just 'Johnny', the three of them easing into a bond of shared trauma. Even still, the memory hurt.

Stevie doesn't even try for subtly when she avoids the conversation entirely. "So, you were saying what about Holloway?" At this, Robin glances quickly out the window, an instinctual there-and-back that has the brunette lifting out of her seat.

"Dude!" Stevie scrambles up to her palms on the table top. "Is she coming here tonight? Is she outside?" There's no one she recognizes on the street, but the prospect of ripping on Robin while wingwoman-ing her date has Stevie pressing her face to window eagerly.

"Goddamn it," she hears Robin mutter under her breath, and then she's being pulled from the window by a strong grip at her elbow. "Serious, Stevie, stop it."

"I'm not doing anything!" She fights the pull a bit, still trying to get a clear look out the window. "I'm not gonna do anything!" Stevie lies blatantly, genuinely giddy.

And honestly, Stevie thanks god every day that she and Rob go for two categorically different types of women. Stevie's pretty and all, knows she looks real good, but she's never had it together in the way that Robin does. Plus, Robin's got this cool factor that Stevie's never managed to achieve—like, she's tuned into the queer mainframe or something. Robin always knows which movies to watch, which artists to namedrop, how to style herself in a way that brings all the girls to their yard. And yes, Stevie benefits heavily from it, but she often wonders where she'd be without her best friend. Truly, she knows she could never compete with the blonde.

Robin's phone lights up against the polished wood of the table top. Stevie makes a half-hearted swipe at it, mostly to rile the blonde up further. As Robin taps furiously at her phone, the brunette hops to her feet, smoothing the buttery leather of her skirt flush to her thighs.

"When is she gonna be here? Should I grab her a drink? I'm about to get round two. What does she drink? Oh my god- should we get an Uber? Take her downtown to the good bar?" Stevie knows she's playing up her excitement, teasing Rob because she knows her friend must be a nervous wreck about this.

"Um, just wait on that," Robin replies distractedly into her phone. "Said she's bringing a friend."

Stevie shrugs easily, "Whatever." She runs a hand through her hair, tousling the locks as she approaches the bar. That cute butch chick is behind it tonight, the one Stevie always tries—and fails—to flirt with. She orders a Manhattan, adjusting the straps of her top when the bartender's back is turned, trying to artfully arrange her hair so that it brushes her collarbones. Hopefully, this will bring attention to the fact that she's gone braless tonight. The chick returns with her drink, sliding the tumbler onto the counter without so much as a glance below Stevie's face. Stevie knows she's pouting as spins to return to the table, tip of her tongue flicking at the little black straw to pull it into her mouth. Hmm, looks like Heather and her friend showed up while she was ordering.

Stevie almost chokes on a mouthful of sweet vermouth and bourbon. She closes her eyes tightly, opens them, and nearly splutters when the scene hasn't changed. Billie Hargrove is grinning back at her, one hip perched against Stevie's table like she owns the whole goddamn establishment. Next to her, Heather's embracing Robin, who quickly pulls away to shoot her best friend a wide-eyed and apologetic grimace. Stevie looks down at her glass, and then up at the front door, seriously considering just walking out of the bar, drink and all. 

And then Heather, missing the tension entirely, turns to greet Stevie with such genuine enthusiasm that the brunette knows she can't just up and leave.

"Oh my god, Stevie Harrington!" Heather's got her arms wide open, padding over in her worn Birkenstocks, distressed jeans and tie-dye crop top. Stevie knows then, with horrific certainty, that this girl is _perfect_ for Robin. She lets herself become engulfed in a hug, one eye on her drink the entire time—god forbid she spill a single drop of her only lifeline left. She can hear Billie snickering at the spectacle. 

Heather pulls back, her hands gripping Stevie's bare shoulders fondly. "Girl, you look amazing! It's been, like, four years!" She marvels, like the brunette doesn't already know both those facts. "This is so exciting! Robin's been telling me all about your life here!"

"Yeah…" Stevie replies weakly, trying to muster even half the energy that Heather's exuding. Billie's snickers roll over into straight laughter.

Heather continues unperturbed, "I'm so jazzed we're joining you guys!" She glances around the bar appreciatively. "This space is great! Once Billie and I settle in, we'll be regulars like you—Hawkins Queer Crew, am I right? God, so happy to be out of that shithole." 

Stevie's not listening, she's zeroed in one tiny piece: "Settled in?" 

"Yeah! Robin told you how we just moved up here?" Over Heather's shoulder, Billie's chomping away at her gum, smiling like she's won the lottery. Stevie stares at the way the white line of her teeth flash. 

"You what," Stevie's tone is a flatline. She turns her attention to Robin. "They what?" Robin clears her throat and chugs half her stout, blatantly avoiding eye contact. Stevie finds herself speechless at the betrayal. Heather excuses herself to the bar, _finally_ cluing into the hostile vibe.

"Aww, Queen Stevie," Billie's finally deigned to speak up, "aren't you happy to see us?" The timbre of her voice is slightly deeper than Stevie remembers, but the tone is unchanged: sharp, overly confident, and dripping with mockery. Robin grimaces and inhales through her teeth, setting down her drink and moving to stand beside Stevie. The implication is clear: if Billie wants to draw a line in the sand, Robin's with Stevie.

Stevie's nearly beside herself with indignation. "You must be fucking kidding me," although she's not sure if she's addressing herself, Hargrove, or just the universe in general. 

The last time she'd seen Billie was the Labor Day BBQ before she and Robin had moved up to the city. The blonde had shown up to drop off Max, but stayed to chat with El. At the time, her chest was still heavily bandaged beneath her shirt, but she was, miraculously, alive. She and Stevie had pointedly ignored each other the entire time. 

Now, Billie's propped against the high table, both hands in the pockets of that worn leather jacket Stevie remembers from high school. She's wearing a pair of ridiculous motorcycle boots and black Levis that are tight around her muscular thighs and calves. Her old Metallica tee is cut to display a wicked starburst scar under her clavicles, and also a truly magnificent stretch of cleavage. 

Stevie's insides swoop familiarly and she panics a little. "Do you even _belong_ here?" She gestures around the bar, her tone nasty, designed to cut.

Billie frowns, looks—hurt? That can't be right. Just as quickly, her expression smooths into one of cool distain. "Unlike you, Harrington, most of us weren't stupid enough to out ourselves in high school. I mean, _Jesus Christ._ "

It's a low blow. Like, _really_ low. Robin's hand is on Stevie's bicep to steady her. Billie might as well have just gut-punched her. Stevie can feel herself turning mean, ugly. 

Out of nowhere, Heather's between them, pressing a full pint glass into Billie's chest, while taking a swig of her own. "Are you two _serious_ right now?" She asks after swallowing. "How can you possibly be fighting already—it's been four years. Are we really not past high school?" It's said with such casual admonishment that Stevie's immediately embarrassed. Billie looks away and takes a slow sip of her beer. 

Robin looks vaguely impressed. She nods towards the bar, announcing, "Let me get another drink before we start in on this shitshow." She squeezes Stevie's shoulder as she passes. "By all means, start without me."

Heather's dragging two additional high stools over to the table, pointing at them meaningfully with a firm, "Sit down, both of you." Stevie feels like she's back in grade school, just been put in timeout. She and Billie sit opposite each other, two chairs crammed between them on one side, the window on the other. Heather slides into the seat next to Billie and folds her arms across the table top.

"Both of you figure it out," she demands quietly, glancing first at Billie and then at Stevie. "Do _not_ ruin my date with Robin." Wow, Stevie thinks, she's not even trying to play it casual. Immediately, Heather's bumped up several notches in Stevie's regard.

The four of them spend the first hour or so making lukewarm small talk—the usual catch-up-since-high-school bullshit. The take-away highlights for Stevie are (1) Tommy and Carol are engaged, (2) the volleyball coach got fired after getting caught with one hand up a senior, and (3) that Bennie's diner has burned down. Then the conversation turns to internships, and Stevie learns that Heather works at a non-profit for the redistribution of food waste, because of course she does. It perfectly complements Robin's absurd passion for urban gardening, and the way she drags Stevie out to the farmer's market every. Single. Weekend. 

Stevie immediately loses the motivation to participate in their conversation. She wishes she cared more about sustainability and green farming and water recycling. But the truth is, she still hasn't shaken the feeling that she's living on borrowed time. There are some days she wakes up and truly believes that this is the day the ground opens up and everything goes to hell again. So, when it comes to questions about the future—like, say, the meticulous and uphill battle to create a better world—she'd rather just throw her dad's money at these things and hope that someone smarter, more qualified, more stable, will swoop in and save them all. Stevie's only ever been good at achieving tangible, short term goals—like guarding a pack of thirteen-year-olds from a swarm of interdimensional monsters.

That thought redirects her attention to the scar that mottles the top of Billie's chest. It's paler than the rest of her golden skin, risen and ropey in texture. Distantly, Stevie realizes this is the first time she's ever seen it. And of course, Billie would wear it like a medal. She wonders how the blonde explains it to strangers. 

A throat is cleared in her direction, and she realizes Billie's caught her staring. Stevie meets her gaze unapologetically. There's a world-weariness there that makes the blonde seem hard, indestructible. Stevie fiddles with one of the rings on her right hand, glances through the window. Outside, it's dark enough now that she can see her own frown reflected back at her. She swallows her pride.

"How's Max?" she inquires, though she already knows full well how Max is. Lucas called her in a frenzy earlier in the week. 

Billie exhales slowly, like she's considering how to respond without triggering either of them. "Good," she responds shortly. Stevie thinks that's all she's going to get before, "She and Sinclair are applying to schools—hoping to go somewhere together."

Stevie snorts, "God help wherever they go." Billie cracks a half-grin in return. "And you?" Stevie continues weakly. This is painful. Feels _impossible._

Billie looks down at the inch of beer left in her glass. "Just transferred to UI. Was taking classes at the community college outside'a Hawkins." She swirls the dredges and swallows them in one go.

"Cool, cool." Stevie nods, trying not to inferior about her own year-and-a-half at a community college in Indy. "What for?"

Billie hesitates for a moment. "English lit," she bites out at last. And that makes sense to Stevie. Billie had always been wickedly smart and clever with words, trying to hide paperbacks behind cigarette packs in school.

Stevie exhales an even, "Yeah, that makes sense." She drops her chin into her hand—she's not even angry anymore, just tired and confused. She'd kill for a cigarette and her headphones right now. There's a long stretch of silence, filled with twin giggles and quiet flirtations between Robin and Heather.

"Sooo…" Billie tries to initiate, "You're a barista?" The blonde sounds like she hates herself for knowing anything about Stevie. Stevie figures she knows through Heather.

"Yep," Stevie replies and then reaches to elaborate, if only to fill the silence. "I like it—it's a lot of. Um. Talking to people." God, she sounds stupid. This was a mistake.

"Hmmm," the blonde comes back with, nodding thoughtfully. "Think you'll go to school for anything?"

Stevie often fantasizes about being a therapist—possibly for kids. But there's no way in hell she's going to tell that to _Billie,_ of all people. Even the prospect unsettles her, and so she grasps for a familiar dynamic.

"Don't need to," she chirps easily. "Already got a trust fund from Daddy," and there's a bit more bite in her tone than she intended, but Stevie wants this interaction to be over. She wants to live _exactly_ up to Billie Hargrove's expectations so that the blonde won't bother with Stevie anymore. And the brunette knows she nothing if not a brat. 

Billie frowns at her, scoffs in mild disgust, and pushes back from the table to get another drink. It feels exactly how Stevie expected it would. By the time Billie returns, Robin and Heather are tongue-deep in each other's mouths, while Stevie scrolls through Instagram and tries to pretend this isn't her life.

"Jesus," Billie mutters at the sight, "remember to come up for air you guys."

Robin untangles herself and wipes at the corner of the lips with one thumb. "Stevie," she turns to her best friend. Stevie looks up from her phone. "I need the apartment for the next couple hours." Heather giggles and noses at Robin's ear. Stevie freezes in true horror. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Billie mirroring the reaction.

"You're leaving me alone with _Hargrove_ for the next two hours?" Stevie doesn't even care that Billie's across the table and well within earshot. 

Robin doesn't seem to think this is as big a transgression as she does, because she responds with, "You're a big girl Stevie, figure it out." And Stevie wants to whine out that she _can't,_ and she _won't,_ and there's just _no way,_ but then Robin pulls out a, "I don't wanna bring up Dani right now," she's staring at Stevie meaningfully, "But I will bring up Dani right now, if I have to."

And _fuck,_ Robin's right. Stevie owes her this.

"Who's Dani?" Billie's perked up a bit, looking interestedly between them. Heather's standing now, gathering her coat.

"Stevie's ex-girlfriend," Robin explains, at the same time that Stevie says, "A girl I used to hook up with." 

The disparity between their responses has Billie's eyes alight with glee. "Well which is it?" She asks hungrily, like the shitshow that is Stevie's love life is Billie's own life blood.

"What I said," Robin responds, again at the same time that Stevie blurts, "None of your business, Hargrove." _Goddamn it._

Robin shrugs on her denim jacket, maneuvering around Heather's arm, which is wrapped tightly around Robin's waist. 

"Play nice!" Heather warns Billie, pulling Robin out the door.

Robin, for her part, tosses a, "I'll text you when you can come home!" as the door swings shut behind them.

Utterly bewildered, Stevie takes a second to consider her options. Across from her, Billie looks uncharacteristically lost, glancing around the bar awkwardly, probably trying to determine if she should just go home. Something in Stevie flops unhappily at the thought. She doesn't _want_ the blonde to go home—sure Stevie could eat up the time playing a few rounds of pool with the older dykes, but the thought of doing so after knowing Billie's left is just. Empty.

Stevie flattens her hands to the table top, laying her cards out. "Listen," she begins and Billie's gaze snaps to hers. "Do you wanna get wasted?" She asks, hoping she doesn't sound as desperate as she feels. "I'll get first round," she adds after a second, trying to sweeten the deal.

She didn't realize Billie had been so tense until she sees the blonde's shoulders lower. Billie exhales a weary, "Yeah, alright," like agreeing to this is literally killing her. "But I'm getting first round," she counters, like it's a point of contention or something. "Means _I_ get to pick the drinks." Ah, Stevie sees, but she's not about to argue because, honestly? She'd consider drinking rubbing alcohol right now, if she thought it might improve the situation even a smidge.

"Have at it," Stevie agrees easily, gesturing out towards the bar, which has filled up quite a bit since the start of the night. She catches a whiff of Billie's scent as the blonde passes. Cigarette smoke, spearmint gum, hair product, and something else—maybe the smell of Billie herself, Stevie supposes. The scent is so familiar and so fraught with memories.

Stevie suddenly wonders about Billie's sexual orientation. She'd never given it a thought back in high school. She'd just assumed the blonde was straight after one memorable house party, when Billie'd refused to fuck their star quarterback because he wouldn't go down on her. Just fucking walked away from it, exiting the bathroom while pulling her shirt back on, before lighting a cigarette and plopping down on a couch next to Carol. Stevie had always been reluctantly impressed with the move. 

There's a tumbler of amber liquid clicking down in front of her, about four fingers full. She picks it up and sniffs it curiously. "Bourbon?"

Billie shakes her head. "Rye, princess. We're in this for the long haul."

Stevie takes an exploratory sip. It's good—goes down smoothly, a little spicy. There's a solid half-minute of tense silence as they both cast around for something to talk about. She takes solace in the fact that Billie seems to be just as uncomfortable as she, herself, is.

"I didn't know you liked women," Stevie cautiously ventures.

Billie shrugs one shoulder in a manner that seems practiced. "Prefer them," she admits. "A guy'll do in a pinch, but it's not a long-term solution. Barely a one-night solution." She's shaking her head and frowning about the state of the world.

A quick bark of laughter pops out of Stevie's mouth before she can even register it bubbling up. Billie leans back into her seat a little more, plays with a couple beads of condensation at the base up her glass. 

"I mean I always kinda knew," Billie's mumbling like she's hoping Stevie won't be able to make out the words. "But back then there was never any reason to say it out loud, ya know?" 

"Oh, trust me," Stevie huffs self-deprecatingly—she'd always been envious of Billie's savvy understanding of high-school's do's and do not's. "I get it. I'm practically the cautionary tale for queer high-schoolers in Hawkins." It's true—Dustin told her once, when she asked why Will wouldn't come out so that he might be able to take a boy to homecoming. _Careful, remember what happened to Stevie Harrington._

"Practically a folkhero for Heather and me," Billie teases. Stevie always forgets that Billie and Heather were one year behind Stevie and Robin during high school. 

"Fuck off."

Billie does not. "Look, yours was, like, almost the worst-case scenario. Took the pressure off the rest of us, if you want my opinion. Really, no one's been fucked that badly since." She's grinning like a jackal.

Stevie wonders if Billie _actually thinks_ she's making Stevie feel better, then figures the blonde probably wouldn't make the effort. "You know what, Billie? I have no doubt that watching me crash and burn made you feel better." Across the table, the blonde flinches and it somehow makes Stevie feel worse. 

"Easy, princess. I didn't mean it like that." Billie's tone is measured, and the brunette can sense them edging up against a precipice again. 

Stevie doesn't want to feel like this anymore. She takes a deep inhale, counts out a slow exhale, feels herself age a lifetime, and then tells herself to let it go. "Okay," she says, more to herself than Billie. Then, "okay," again, this time towards the blonde. Billie's expression is unreadable. 

"Look," Stevie steels herself as she says it. "I'm just. I'm feeling a little wounded here, alright?" She offers timidly, extending an olive branch into no man's land against all her better judgement. "Our history is kind of—" she casts around for the right word, "—raw," she lands on.

Billie's looking at her now, like _really_ looking at her. Stevie's not entirely certain what the blonde is searching for, but she's trying not to let it piss her off. Finally, the blonde huffs out sharply through her nose and nods to their unfinished drinks.

"Let's kill these and go split a smoke outside, huh?" It's not really a suggestion, more like a declaration of intent, which Stevie has always been particularly susceptible to. The brunette nods, as if she has a say in the matter, and tips back the double rye. Some of it trickles out onto her chin, and she wipes it away with the back of her wrist. 

They leave their jackets and Stevie's purse at the table—they'll be able to keep an eye on them through the window. Outside, it's just brisk enough for Stevie to nip-up under her top. The silk material does absolutely nothing to help out either. Billie's lighting the cigarette between her lips, the end flaring cherry red as the flame catches. There's a lungful of smoke between them, and then the blonde's offering her the stick. Billie's hands look strong, her fingers toned, kind of thick, and Stevie drunkenly wonders how many could fit inside her. Immediately after that thought, she marvels at her own idiocy, snatches up the cigarette, and prays for lung damage with the drag she takes.

Stevie hands the cigarette back, croaking a "thanks," and wrapping one arm around her waist to stave off the cold. Waits for the whiskey to hit her blood. 

Billie glances pointedly down at Stevie's chest, amused half-smile twisting her lips, and draws Stevie towards her with a gentle hand at the small of her back. "Come on, baby girl." 

Stevie _knows_ that Billie's raspy tone is meant to be patronizing, but _fuck_ if the heat of that palm isn't searing. Stevie's head is swimming as she's pulled into the blonde's side, enveloped in body warmth and that smoke-leather-gum- _Billie_ smell. She's not sure if Billie's trying to be extra nice on principle, what with their volatile past and all—maybe trying to create the foundation for a friendship since they'll likely be seeing a lot of each other now. Regardless, Stevie's absolutely not above taking what she can get. She puts a pin in the sense memory—a mental post-it to revisit later, when she's alone. Possibly in bed.

When Billie tips her head back to exhale into the night, Stevie get a close-up of the blonde's scar. It's savage looking. Somehow adds _more_ to Billie's already animal nature.

As the cigarette is passed back to her, Stevie's blurting out, "Does it ever hurt?" before she can reconsider.

Reflexively, Billie's hand flies up to cover the scar. She rubs at it absently, frowning, "I guess? Sometimes it's sore, if that's what you mean."

Stevie shakes her head and exhales smoke out of the side of her mouth. "No, like—Nance says that Will Byers still gets these like—tinges, or whatever—when, uh. Um. _Weird_ things start up in Hawkins." Nice Stevie, real nice. 

"You still _talk_ to Wheeler?" Billie's voice is pitched up in disbelief.

"Yeah, Johnny too." Stevie replies, refusing to feel ashamed about it. "We went through a lot, the three of us, you know?" And she knows Billie must have _some_ idea—after everything that happened at Starcourt, how could she not? She fully expects the silence that follows.

And then Billie shakes her head. "That girl made a mess outta you." Stevie suspects the blonde has never pulled a punch in her life.

"Yeah," Stevie agrees with a shrug, "but she never meant to. I think she _thought_ she really loved me." It's a pill that's taken years to swallow. "You know, how before you fall in love for the first time, you don't really know what it's supposed to feel like? That's what was going on." The realization still cuts deep—not because she still has feelings for Nance. More like, she's still grieving the loss of being carefree in matters of love.

"Do you still—you know." Billie swallows, "Do you miss her?"

"Nah, not _her,_ " Stevie answers easily, glancing up at the waxing moon. "I think I just miss being brave in love." It slips out, she hadn't even meant to say it. Honestly, hadn't even realized she felt that way. What a pussy thing to say out loud. At least it's true.

"Wow, that's—" Billie begins, sighing long and sadly. "That's too fuckin' real." Stevie wonders if the blonde's avoiding saying too much, lest they fall back into their usual cycle. She also realizes they're on dangerous tangent right now. They're about to become wasted, and this kind of talk won't lead to anything good at all.

"Let's go back inside," she suggests, jostling Billie's elbow. "I want another beer, then I wanna relearn how to play pool."

The hand that Billie's got on her back skates around to pinch tightly at the skin of Stevie's waist, right through the silk. She shrieks a bit and slaps the hand away. Billie's laughing, of course.

"Billie! You asshole," she whines. "That's probably gonna bruise."

"Mmm. Perfect," Billie rasps, looking genuinely pleased with herself. Stevie tells herself there's absolutely nothing she likes about that response. 

Warmth's blooming in her chest now, her body feeling pleasantly loose and weightless as they return to their table—this time sitting on adjacent stools. The flat screen above the bar that was previously playing the L-Word reboot has now cycled back around to the second season, closed-captioning still on. They spend the next fifteen minutes commenting as they watch the back-half of an episode. It should be perfectly neutral territory, except that Stevie can't help herself. Case-in-point: 

"Carmen's the only one worth shit," Billie announces at some point. "I'd fuck the shit outta Carmen."

For the sake of disagreeing, Stevie counters with, "I don't know. Kinda liked Dana. And Alice is alright."

Billie snorts. "You _would_ think that. They're both fucking obnoxious."

"Nah, you know who I really liked? Marina. That bitch seemed like she could _fuck._ " Stevie knows now that she's reached the point of no return, because ranking the cast of L-Word by fuckability is a classic drunk pastime for Robin and her.

 _"Marina?_ That bitch basically didn't last past the first season!" Billie's laughing in disbelief.

"So what? Fingerfucking someone in the bathroom of your own bar? That's _hot._ " Stevie jabs her index finger twice into the tabletop to underscore the statement. It's a hill she'll die on, but only because Billie seems to object to her assessment entirely. 

"Look—I mean, true—" the whiskey's put a bit of color in Billie's cheeks, "—but, she's clearly out of her mind. Can you imagine putting in that much effort to fuck _Jenny?"_

"I mean, can't you?" It's only said so that she can watch Billie struggle to find a diplomatic response. Feeling pleased with herself, Stevie snickers, "Look, I wouldn't even feel this way if you didn't disagree with it."

"God, you're still so fucking irritating, Harrington," the blonde groans incredulously.

"You're supposed to be playing nice with me, Hargrove," she pouts back, enjoying the back-and-forth they've fallen into.

Then Billie's pressing in close, deliberately making Stevie lean back in her chair to maintain the distance. "I don't think you actually _want_ me to play nice with you, baby girl."

Stevie ignores what her insides are doing, instead hmmm's noncommittally. "Even if I wanted, I don't think you actually _know_ how to play nice, Billie."

And then there's a hot weight on her leg. She glances down—Billie's got one hand curled around Stevie's bare knee, thumb stroking the soft skin of her outer thigh. In her ear, Billie's murmuring, "I can play _very nice,_ " and Stevie's gut sours and drops.

Yeah okay, it's hot, _of course_ it's hot. Stevie's not going to deny she's a little wet between her legs about it. But she's remembering how indestructible Billie's always seemed, and how _very_ destructible Stevie considers herself in comparison. And it's not—this isn't _real._ People don't actually sweet talk each other like this. Billie's playing a game, doesn't realize Stevie's _still_ not savvy enough to play along.

And so, Stevie forfeits—she was always too weak against this particular brand of Billie's bullshit. At this point in life, she knows when to cut her losses. "Nice try, Hargrove." She chuckles weakly, grabbing the hand on her knee and pushing it back into Billie's own lap. Ignoring the blonde's bewildered expression, she decides, "Let's go play some pool. Every time I learn how to play I'm drunk, so every time I drink I have to relearn it." She grabs her jacket and bag and walks off towards the back of the bar, relieved when she hears Billie following. No harm, no foul, she figures.

At the pool table, there are the usual five or six older lesbians—weathered women, solid and mostly butch, really seem like they could _get the job done_ in bed. Exactly Stevie's type, if she could get any of them to actually like her. 

"Where's Robby?" One of them—Stevie thinks her name is Eileen—asks as Stevie approaches, Billie trailing right behind.

Stevie scoffs playfully, "What am I, just the side dish to Robin? I'm doing great, thanks for asking, Eileen." She gets a round of chuckles for her cheek, which improves her mood a bit.

Janice, a tall brunet with cropped hair and a full sleeve tattoo chimes in, "We teaching you pool again, Stevie?" And _thank god,_ at least one of them remembers her name. This would have been humiliating otherwise.

"Oh my god," she hears Billie realize beside her. "You weren't joking." The blond turns to Janice. "How many times have you taught her how to play pool?" 

"Doesn't matter," Stevie's shoving at the blonde, trying to redirect her attention, right as Janice replies, "'Bout a half-dozen times." _Goddamn it._

Then Billie's biting her lip and shaking her head, like Stevie is a tragedy and Billie's not sure whether to laugh or cry about it.

It's about this point that the events of the night begin to blur together for Stevie. Everything becomes one big wash of billiard balls and pool cues, another round of beers, loud cheers. Constantly gunning for Billie's attention, shrugging it off when she gets it. Billie smiling fondly, leaning over Stevie to show her how to direct the cue, her blonde curls brushing Stevie's shoulders. Bantering performatively for laughs, friendly hands on her shoulders, pointed comments and hair ruffling when Billie momentarily leaves for the bathroom. Stevie Nicks over the sound system, Billie, loose and smiling, chatting away with a couple of older butches. Lights flickering for last call and a series of missed texts on Stevie's phone. Cool night air, street lights, the sound of their boots on pavement, Billie's arm looped around her waist. Terrible, terrible singing—god is that _them?_ The door to her apartment, a sudden flurry of faces- Robin, Heather, Billie again, all tired smiles. Good news—better news? A glass of water and her bed, _oh god yes,_ her bed. And then nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Should I continue? Comments? Bueller?


End file.
